


The Hand That Feeds

by MoiraiThanatoio



Series: The Darker Side of Need [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Master/Slave, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoiraiThanatoio/pseuds/MoiraiThanatoio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is unable to trust until he finds the perfect Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hand That Feeds

Greg Sanders knelt, faintly shivering, at the feet of Lady Heather. His trembling wasn't due to temperature, or his state of nudity, but uncertainty.

"You don't know why you're here, do you, Greg?"

He started, not having expected her to speak as she circled him in critical examination. "No, Lady Heather," he replied smoothly. His voice hid his tension, his downcast eyes dilated with the weight of his apprehension.

"You, my dear Mr. Sanders, are being evaluated for banishment. Your Domain membership is on the cusp of deletion."

He'd frozen first in shocked fear. Then, breaking his carefully cultivated pose of submissive nonchalance, his hand shot out to grasp her nearest ankle and bring her to a halt. "You can't," he babbled. "I couldn't," he continued, stumbling over his words. "Please," was all he finally managed to add.

Lady Heather stared calmly at him, unaffected. Under that gaze that weighed him and found him wanting, Greg quailed. He released her, curling back into his penitent posture. If he didn't have the Domain, there would be nowhere for him to go. His carefully crafted façade of a 'normal' life came with the burden of intense scrutiny.

His membership in the Domain, while pricey, carried with it security. Only here did he have the privacy and confidentiality to reveal himself. Greg shuddered with distaste at the thought of returning to the bars and clubs that would be his only option without Lady Heather and her carefully screened 'social club.'

Her voice brought him back to himself, circling him like a Sword of Damocles, growing ever closer. "Male, female, youth, maturity, none of the varying techniques, approaches, seem to suit you."

Greg attempted to launch a defense as he felt his sanctuary slipping through his fingers. "I just don't want…"

He was interrupted. "This is not," she paused with particular emphasis, "about your unreadiness to be fucked."

He curled further into himself at what he saw as a statement of his deficiency. Lady Heather, looking at his downbent head, sighed. "I had begun to doubt if you were even on the correct side of the equation. I now believe we simply haven't found you the correct master."

Greg held back his snort of derision. He doubted his match even existed. It wasn't arrogance… not really… just a certainty that he couldn't yield completely to just anyone.

"You will await my call. Your judgement will be suspended for now. But take note, my dear Mr. Sanders."

He looked up to meet her solemn gaze.

"You do not have a wealth of chance remaining."

"Yes, Lady Heather," he mumbled from the depth of his desolation.

***

"That would be extremely ill-advised."

"Why?" Lady Heather asked the question with an innocent widening of her dark eyes.

Gil Grissom pursed his lips, not buying the act for a second. He set the fine porcelain teacup aside. "Beyond the fact that I no longer exercise my membership in the Domain?"

Lady Heather waved a hand dismissively. "Of course. You know my views on that."

Neither took any notice of the nude pair that refilled their cups and removed the soiled dishes from the luncheon.

"He's half my age."

"That has never bothered you before."

"Scrutiny for your business has increased."

Lady Heather smirked. "Your retirement from the field was for that reason. As not a person suspects your long-running involvement, that protest is invalid."

Gil conceded the point with an inclination of his head. Their charade, when death had twice brought him to the Domain in a professional capacity, had been flawless. His abandonment of a long-held membership had truly been for other reasons.

But there was a single, inexorable objection.

"I am his superior."

"Often the case with a submissive," Lady Heather retorted airily. When his eyes narrowed, she dropped the affected ignorance. "Then I will be forced to banish him."

"You're manipulating me," Grissom stated flatly.

"Is it working?" she asked with the lift of a dark brow.

Grim, Gil didn't answer the question directly. His response was clear all the same.

"He cannot know my identity."

***

Greg had just finished changing his shoes and didn't hesitate to drop his head against his locker when his cell phone rang. He was too tired to be pleasant.

"Sanders," he practically barked into the phone. A slight chuckle answered him at first. Then, a voice undisturbed by his grumpiness.

"The Domain, half an hour."

He winced. "I can't. I've just finished a double. I need to shower, sleep." The silence taunted him. "Dammit, I have to be back at work in six hours!"

The simple beep of a disconnect echoed inordinately loud in his ear. Lady Heather knew it hadn't been a refusal. Greg knew it hadn't been a refusal.

He just hadn't wanted to receive the call when his defenses would be at a natural low.

***

The room was decorated in simple elegance. All the rooms used by members looked like high-class but not pretentious hotel rooms. This one was done in navy and cream with a matching en suite.

He waited in the center of the main room, uneasy. He hadn't been in this particular room before. The large bed, the lack of cabinets, this was evidence that didn't match his usual 'appointments.'

The door opened with a soft sound and he turned automatically. Lady Heather entered, a faint, satisfied smile on her face. "Your clothing, please," she asked with an outstretched hand.

He began to strip, handing her each item as it was removed. When nude, he gestured vaguely at his groin. "I don't think I can…"

She didn't react. "He doesn't require it."

And Greg had his first clue. His last chance would be male.

Laying aside the clothing for a moment, Lady Heather unlooped a length of black silk from her waist. Kneeling at her gesture, Greg closed his eyes when the cloth was lifted to his face. She knotted it in a tight, looping bow as he waited.

There was a slight touch to his shoulder as she leaned. "Trust," was all she said before he heard the door close once again. He inhaled deeply, drawing the faint scent of lilac that always clung to her. It was reassuring, somehow. He would always associate that scent with his training, with his decision that this was what he needed, and with the peace he'd finally found in that admission.

The room was too quiet, not even the faint adjustments of the air system making any true impact. Greg was faintly dozing, worn out and exhausted, when he snapped back to awareness.

There was a hand in his hair. When had the door opened? How had he not heard someone enter? The faint movement of the fingers carding through his hair gentled the instinctual panic in his sightless state. He had never favored blindfolds.

The hand left his hair and this time Greg heard the near silent rustle as the person stepped back. A lifting touch at his elbow brought him to his feet, compliant in his curiosity.

He was a criminalist. Even after a double shift and without his sight, the evidence would speak to him. He was more than a match for some likely office drudge, bored after the requisite eight hours. Even better, this silent, hidden man would have no idea of Greg's capability.

Greg inhaled, trying to catch his breath. Shockingly, he was nervous. He wrote it off to anxiety over this rather unusual evaluation. The thought brought a grin to his face as his toes sank into the thick carpeting. Imagine if all his evaluations went this way…

That light touch on his arm guided him to walk, his bare feet noting the change as he crossed from carpet to tile. The sudden chill of ceramic caused his feet to curl protectively even as he walked where directed. He halted when the pressure of a fingertip touched on his breastbone. Fighting the growing urge to speak, to insist on a verbal response, Greg registered the pouring hiss of the shower.

The temperature and humidity of the bathroom both rose near instantly. He'd known that Lady Heather had updated the facilities with the instant-on technology. It was simply something he'd not yet seen demonstrated. Of course, Greg wasn't really 'seeing' anything right now.

He was frustrated, restless. How could he find that center he so continually sought if his partner couldn't even keep his wandering thoughts focused? More rustling, the rasp of a zipper, presumably his companion removed his clothing. Then the touch was back.

A hand on each of his shoulders ushered him into the shower. His earlier reconnaissance had noted no sill to impede his steps. Orienting himself against that internal map, Greg stepped forward.

The hands halted him beneath the overhead spray, hot against his skin, soothing without burning. Gliding down from shoulder to bicep, past elbow to forearm, the hands clasped around his wrists. Greg's arms were lifted and arranged until his palms lay flat on the tile wall.

Memory supplied the picture he knew must be before him. Skinny, too long fingers, bony wrists, the pallid skin of a night owl contrasting adversely with the creamy tile beneath his splayed hands. The tiny blue repetitious flowers peeking accusingly between each finger.

The silent touch returned, this time not flesh. A loofah, scratchy with the indication of a natural sponge, eased by some gel product, caressed his leg. The product foamed. He could feel the almost tickle of the bubbles. In turn, each leg was washed. His feet were lifted, each toe attended to with precision.

Abandoned to rinse in the flowing water, Greg was momentarily bereft. Then, the man was back. No longer was Greg eased into contact. A definitively male form pressed against him from shoulders to thighs. He edged slightly away, uncomfortable with the dick prodding his ass. Arms reached around, enclosing him and halting his escape.

Rather than the comforting waft of lilac, he was surrounded by male. It wasn't cologne… more ephemeral than that. It was the spice to a deodorant, the faint musk that never clung to a woman. Unidentified, it was hard to place as the water in the air clogged his senses.

Greg opened his mouth to speak, to protest this odd treatment. Surely Lady Heather had briefed this person on what he would and would not do? What was with this odd seduction? Why couldn't this man be like the others and just beat him to a mutual release?

A bare thumb slid across his spread lips, silencing the unspoken protest. Greg sighed at the return of the loofah, scrubbing across his chest and down his torso. The thumb had an odd callus. Mayhap, this was no office worker. Skilled labor, perhaps, Greg pondered as his mind let go the momentary fear and returned to the evidence.

The bath gel was unscented, an oddity in the luxury of the Domain, the scrubbing methodical and exact. The scrub turned into a caress as his cock and balls were cleaned. The loofah suddenly absent, precise fingers explored and weighed his genitals leaving him half-hard. A quick brush down the crack of his ass had him momentarily tensing, but without the rapid deflation of his cock that he'd expected. Luckily, his partner moved on, not exploring the reaction or attempting to test his limits.

His arms were attended to quickly, his whole body rinsed swiftly. Then the hands grasped his head, fingers spread to his cheeks with the thumbs just touching under the knotted scarf. His face was directed into the spray before the hands moved.

They were unknotting the scarf. Greg shivered, his head twitching as if to turn the instant sight was restored. The hands steadied him, replacing his features beneath the implacable flow of water.

Knot finally sliding free, Greg added the descriptive 'dexterous' to his mental list. He doubted he would have been able to undo a damp knotted cloth. Of course, this was an opportunity he wasn't about to miss. With the cloth draped around his throat, Greg's eyes shot open. His gaze confirmed his prior assumption about the appearance of his hands.

Their gangly look displeased him. He wasn't hideous, he knew that. But, deep inside, he suspected why no lover had ever stayed with him. He would never have the magnetism he saw in others. Too slim, too gawky, too needy, without the male power of someone like Nick or Warrick, or sheer intangible charisma that his boss seemed to emit.

Abandoning that depressing train of thought, he identified the small flowers under his fingers as English tea roses. It was a distancing tactic, this ability to focus on detail.

His eyes glanced about but added nothing useful as his head was massaged. The faint white spray and bubbly feeling implied shampoo, then his head was tilted forward to rinse. Keeping his eyes opened tempted the burn of suds. The temptation of information overrode that risk.

But all Greg saw was strong, well-formed feet and calves. Dusted with black hair touched in places by grey, the skin tone was a pale olive complexion. His face tilted up once again, he pondered this new information. A man, likely older than him, and not resembling his own Nordic descent, not with that skin tone.

Fingers slid down his forehead, easing his eyes closed. Then, with a deft touch, his face received its own cleansing massage. Finally clean and rinsed, Greg nearly moaned as the cloth was retied over his eyes.

A worse loss, the touch abandoned him. With a slight vocalization of his displeasure, Greg took his hands from the tile and reached back. One found flesh, a side and the faint pudge of beginning middle age.

His other was handed the loofah, his grasping hold on the material automatic. Greg paused, waiting, but received no further indications.

The silence stretched before he realized he was to return the service. A grin split Greg's features. In that service, he had a perfect opportunity to learn his partner.

Greg dropped to his knees with a careful motion. It would not do to injure himself on the slick tile. Reaching, he found the feet he'd glimpsed before. Even without his sight, he could feel the focused stare of his silent master.

Beginning his ministrations, he found the feet solid yet well cared for. The calves, with their thicker covering of hair, were stocky yet thoroughly muscled. Something odd about the knees teased at his memory, but Greg moved on without grasping the answer.

The thighs confirmed his earlier reversal that this person did not work in an office. No one who rode a desk had this musculature without a gym, which in itself was belied by the softening middle. Perplexed, Greg soaped his hands to explore the heretofore avoided genitalia.

The testicles in their furred sac were as expected. The cock was not. Sure, he had known his partner would have a penis. But this length? With both hands, he explored the fully erect length and breadth. Even were he accustomed to the act, he wasn't sure he'd want this anywhere near his ass.

Oddly, though, it challenged the temptation to see if he could work his mouth around such a girth. Greg moved on, unaware that he'd been masturbating his companion for extended minutes. Beneath the flowing water, he couldn't hear the nearly inaudible panting of his partner.

Distracted, Greg washed the torso with quick motions. The middle was softening, yes. But it was that natural way of age without the exaggerations of gut or washboard abs. Again, the chest echoed a sturdy strength.

He encountered the crinkling of chest hair and wondered how it would feel against flesh other than his hands. Working his way past arms and hands, noting for future consideration the location of other calluses, Greg abandoned the loofah. Free, his hands reached out only to be halted short of his companion's head.

He grunted in frustration as one palm was turned up, anointed with a silky liquid, then both were placed on hair. Grinning, appeased, Greg began to massage. He could finally feel that his partner was approximately his own height. The hair fought to curl around Greg's fingers and had a length at the ears which bespoke a forgotten cut.

Still smiling gently, Greg directed the head beneath the water and combed through until his sensitive digits no longer detected the presence of suds. Anticipating, his fingers were tracing the features before having attained any soap. They were quickly removed, caught and held as the flow of water ceased.

Greg frowned at the end to his sensual exploration. But his disappointment soon vanished as warm terrycloth was briskly scrubbed across him from head to toe. It seemed his silent partner's patience with the explorations was over as he was directed into the main room with a pressure at the small of his back.

There were faint noises that bespoke his partner quickly drying. Then, Greg was assisted towards and onto the bed. He tensed but then relaxed as he was merely arranged. On his front, partially over a pillow, his companion quickly settled at his back.

Heavy arm over his stomach, leg over both his own, the hair scratched and tickled in an enticing way. Exhausted from work, confused by his treatment, Greg found himself surprisingly dropping asleep.

***

Gil rose from the bed in which he'd slept next to another person for the first time in years. There was a faint smile on his face at the slight snores coming from Greg. He was glad the younger man had slept deeply, even with the necessary blindfold. Gil hadn't been able to deny himself the pleasure of sleeping wrapped around the slight body.

Dressed, his fingers quickly untied the knot. The scarf was surprisingly easy to slip away as Greg merely snuffled into his pillow. Gil combed his fingers through the hair a final time before leaving. The connection, this sense of melancholy, was a shock to his system.

Lady Heather stopped him in the hall with a knowing smile. "I'll wake him," she promised.

***

He first noted it was cold. Greg woke with a start, sight returned, still draped over the pillow where he'd been placed. Lady Heather, seated calmly at the bedside, watched him with a considering stare.

Taking pity on his confusion, she finally spoke. "Your clothing has been laundered and you are due at work in half an hour. The master is considering whether to revisit you. You'll be notified in due time."

She stood, smiling down proprietarily. "Very well done, Mr. Sanders."

***

“New girlfriend, Greggo?”

“Huh,” Greg replied intelligently.

Nick looked across the table and grinned. “You’re whistling.”

“Was not.”

Even as he defended himself, Greg started to smirk. He probably had been. Lady Heather hadn’t called him yet, but this time was it. This time, he wouldn’t be left to dangle in the wind.

“Was too,” Nick retorted.

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

“Was not!”

They hadn’t realized the joking trade-off had carried into the hallway.

“What is going on in here?!”

Grissom appeared to be equal parts baffled and exasperated. When he received no reply, he simply shook his head. “Nick, Sanders, back to work.”

Greg turned back to the table, grumbling, “Great, you’re Nick but I’m back to being Sanders.”

Nick shook his head, already back to sorting the evidence spread in front of them. “At least he’s not asking you riddles.”

Greg snorted. Everyone had heard the cow story. “He seriously needs to relax.”

It was Nick’s turn to snort. “Go ahead and tell him that. I’d borrow Brass’ vest first.”

Greg shook his head, concentrating once more on his work. Grissom was a seriously lost cause when it came to recreation.

***

“Is it not unwise to use his words against him?”

Grissom stood from where he had crouched to check the table supports. “Of course not. After all, it’s been quite awhile since I had a decent massage.”

Lady Heather shook her head slightly, looking over the room a final time. “They could be more frequent if you would keep a pet.”

Gil frowned. “Only infrequently is it possible to find someone who understands my work. Most would only believe me neglectful. I’ll not have that.”

She stared at him for a long moment in silence.

Lips pursed, Gil answered the unspoken suggestion with a simple, “No.” He elaborated after a pause, “I agreed to help you determine the source of his lack of compliance, not to enter a long-term arrangement.”

A small chiming noise interrupted their discourse. Lady Heather frowned at the telling glow in Grissom’s eyes despite the stubbornness of his position. He walked quickly to the side of the room, disappearing into the bathroom.

Sighing, she picked the black scarf up off the table and turned to the door.

***

It was the navy and cream room again, Greg noted as Lady Heather ushered him inside. The black fabric in her hand tempted him with anticipation. He’d gotten the call at work, his ebullience leading his coworkers into even further teasing.

Curious, he glanced from the sheet-draped massage table to Lady Heather. She seemed preoccupied, off balance from her usual focused and attentive self.

“Strip and lay on the table.”

Greg did so quickly, uncertain as to her behavior.

“Your bag?”

He nodded towards the door where he’d dropped the small satchel with the specified change of clothing. She barely glanced over before instructing him, “On your back.”

Complying, he still watched her with an edge of worry. “Lady Heather?”

Her gaze drifted from the open door of the bathroom back to his face. Smiling slightly, she reassured, “It’s alright, Greg. Just lie down.”

He leaned back, settling his gangly limbs on the padded surface. She stepped forward, the scarf lifted. Greg blushed as his cock twitched in interest.

Lady Heather didn't comment, only chuckling slightly as she stole his sight. He could hear her moving away, the delicate scent of lilac fading. Then, the soft latch of the door and silence.

But there was something odd in the silence. His body reacted, feeling the intensity of a gaze. He tensed, his ears seeking some clue that would confirm or deny the sensation.

There.

The soft pad of bare feet across plush carpet. It wasn’t really a footstep, per se, more the parting and resettling of the fibers as a foot passed.

An odd noise caught Greg’s attention as his slight squirming released the scent of the laundry. The two small clicks were suddenly explained as music filled the room, softly at first but growing louder. Instrumental, an overture of some sort, rolling out to fill all the quiet crevices.

Greg startled when a hand suddenly touched his chest. Its familiarity to before brought him to stillness. Caressing, he gave into its urge for him to breathe deeply and relax.

The cotton was satin smooth against his back, ass, and legs. The hand on his chest held him tethered to the surface more certainly than any chain.

Again, his nose went seeking for a signature scent to identify this man. Again, he was denied. There was only the betraying hint of male with no cologne or other betraying identifier.

The warm tickle of liquid across his chest drew Greg from his concentration as mocha perfumed the air. His brow furrowed.

Who used mocha scented massage oil?

The question came with deep worry. Surely Lady Heather hadn’t discussed him too deeply with this person? This was safe, an anonymous indulgence. This person couldn’t know of his love affair with the coffee bean, his insistence on the best.

It was coincidence.

Hands spreading the slick substance over his chest brought Greg’s thoughts from caution to irritance. The oil was barely held by the splotchy thin hair on his chest. Not for the first time, Greg resolved to shave it away.

Was it the loss of his sight that brought his thoughts inward? Critical, accusing, contemplative, he was at their mercy.

The rising tide of a crescendo masked what Greg was certain had to be a chuckle as he shifted restlessly. The volume he could approve. The content was another matter. The moment he’d heard the yodeling voices, he’d known it was opera. He was without hope of identifying the particular one, knowing little to nothing about the art.

Strong, even pressure drew the slick down Greg’s skin. His actively rambling thoughts faded to observation as the tension was drained from each muscle. Greg found his mind encompassed by mocha and touch.

The hands moved to his legs, pressing and lifting. They started back up his body to a sudden firm grasp of his cock.

Greg arched off the massaged table with a cry. When had he become hard? His mind goggled at the piercing jolts of pleasure as he was jacked. His balls were cradled, his prick tormented.

He gasped repeatedly. The wicked touch was driving him closer and closer to release. Soon, he could feel it. It was right there. He could taste it.

Greg sobbed, whimpering and wordlessly pleading as all touch vanished. He was bereft, his release deserting him.

Soothing, fingertips caressed the bones of his face. He knew his silent master could see the scarf dampened with tears of denial.

‘Why,’ Greg wanted to ask. Then, he remembered that this wasn’t about mutual pleasure. It was about not losing his sole refuge. The scarf became further dampened and Greg opened his mouth to speak.

His words were halted. The sudden, not quite pressure of lips brushing across his own startled him into retaining his silence. Again, the hands returned. They urged him to rise, to turn over, to sprawl on his belly.

Greg complied, confused at his own willingness and the peace he’d found in this contact. As he settled, he squirmed at the sensation of his trapped prick. It was caught between the barely yielding softness of the padding and the weight of his own body.

An impartial hand moved beneath him. Though it didn’t assuage his need, it did ensure that he wasn’t unnecessarily pained.

A fresh burst of the soothing chocolate tinted coffee hit the air as liquid trickled onto Greg’s back. He groaned freely as those talented digits found each cramped knot in his muscles. They skid lightly as they left a sheen across his buttocks before digging into the muscles of his legs.

He also didn’t notice when the hands returned to his ass. But as the fingers encompassed his cheeks and thumbs spread the oil lightly into his crevice, Greg startled himself. He moaned, pressing his cock into the table before lifting back into the touch.

Panting, he enjoyed the light brushing of a thumb over his hole. But, once again, Greg’s mind was spinning.

Did he want that?

Could he want that?

He’d never really found the idea appealing but… Greg’s disordered thoughts shattered as his ass was slapped. The stinging ephemeral imprint of that wicked hand was enough to toss his control.

Greg came, spurting onto the sheet beneath him with a gasping cry. Dazed, he barely felt himself guided upright. Gently, he was wiped of excess oil and cleaned of his own spunk. Greg murmured inaudibly as he was arranged as before on the bed.

The plaintive cry of a soprano accompanied his rapid drop into sleep with arm wrapped tight around him.

***

“Perhaps,” Lady Heather’s voice accused as Gil slipped from the room, “if this is truly as temporary as you claim, you should cease to sleep with him as if he were already your pet.”

When he didn’t respond, she prodded again. “Are you certain this seduction is the best tactic?”

Gil sighed. “His training is impeccable. You know this as you provided it. What he lacks is trust… trust beyond that of a mechanical release.”

She stared at him before nodding. “Building that could be lengthy and would require the correct master. Have you changed your mind?”

Grissom’s eyes were haunted. “No,” he whispered.

***

“This cannot continue.”

“In that, you are perfectly correct.”

Lady Heather allowed the slightest glimmer of satisfaction to curve her lips. “Then we are in agreement.”

Gil stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

Her face closed off, colder and more barren than she usually directed at him. “You are making a mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Gil acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “Better myself than him.”

***

Greg had been half-hard all day in anticipation. It certainly didn’t make his job any easier. Just when he’d vanquished the reaction, he would remember that he had another appointment. Sara, for one, kept giving him unusually considering glances.

It was somewhat surprising, when he arrived at the Domain, to be directed to the smaller private dining room. Greg’s brow creased as he climbed the stairs. The room was where Lady Heather usually took tea, where she conducted personal interviews.

After a day spent anticipating another session, was he to be denied?

An unexpectedly sharp frisson of hope surged through Greg and he hurried his steps. The room was also where Lady Heather assisted with negotiations. Had he finally found that Holy Grail? A person as fascinated with him as he was with them.

As he’d considered, Lady Heather was waiting just inside. Greg was smiling as he crossed to her. He failed to notice the atypically somber aspect of her features. His eyes were solely focused on the black cloth hanging from her hand.

Instantly, he was erect.

Greg never registered the slight whimper that issue from his own throat as he raised his hands to divest himself of his shirt. Lady Heather gestured with her empty hand for him to stop. He did, immediately.

His fingers were wound in the hem of his shirt, his stance shifting slightly to ease the constriction of his trousers. Lady Heather stepped closer. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but remained silent.

“Lady Heather?” Greg questioned tentatively.

The awkward quiet was broken by his soft voice. Released from her odd daze, Lady Heather was once more all business. She smiled in the barest of reassuring fashions. Greg’s eyes tracked the black scarf as she raised it, hardly noticing that she was speaking to him.

“He wishes to undress you. You need only enjoy… and obey,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Greg trembled. The cool silky fabric on his face was a kiss of the most intimate kind. No scene he’d experienced before, no master, had called to him this way.

Lady Heather’s hands were oddly hesitant as she tied the fabric. Her hesitation, as if she wanted to make it too loose, was surely his imagination. Greg’s balance changed from left foot to right and back again as she paused with her hand on his shoulder.

He never heard the click of the door opening over her question. “This man has made you happy, has he not, my dear Mr. Sanders?”

“Like no one before,” Greg whispered in reply.

Of course, he could not see the challenging looks traded between the man and woman over his welfare. Greg only knew that Lady Heather’s touch released him before arms reached around to the buttons at the neck of his polo shirt. They were undone, Greg rarely having attained a truly professional image.

He worried all the same. “No, you said,” he uttered, reaching to stop Lady Heather’s hands.

The hands told him that he had guessed wrong. They were the wrong size, shape to be Lady Heather’s.

Greg sighed, leaning back slightly until his body rested against the form of his previously silent companion.

“Shhh.”

The slightly sibilant gust of air caressed his neck, preceding the light kiss of welcome just below his ear. Greg tilted his head, offering his lover all the space he wished. He could tell now that Lady Heather had left. A deep breath found no trace of her signature lilac.

Instead, Greg fancied that he could scent the pheromones that must be perfuming the air. The intangible markers drew his response to this lover far swifter than any obvious scent.

Greg drew a breath as the hands moved down his chest in a caress, pausing at his waistband. The faintest of chuckles echoed in his ear as one hand slid slightly lower and palmed his turgid cock. The silent grip mirrored his own heart-felt urgency as his belt buckle, button, and zipper were undone with hurried jerks.

It could have been the slight chill against his sensitive flesh that had Greg moaning as the hands slid into his underwear. But it was definitely the firm caress that had him thrusting into the grip as he leaned further on his partner.

His pants and boxers were shoved roughly around his hips as he was manipulated. On Greg’s slim hips, without the support of his belt, the trousers rapidly slithered to the floor. He writhed against the grasp on his erection, pressing himself back in a wordless plea.

The caressed continued, a frantic seeking of pleasure. Then, with no indications, they ceased.

Greg keened at the loss as the hands shifted to a bruising grasp of his hips. With palms at the side, the fingers just covered the bony edge of hipbones. Greg gasped as he was pulled back, a clothed yet insistent hardness quivering against his ass.

“Please,” dropped quietly from Greg’s lips. It seemed to surprise not only himself, but also his partner. A forehead, faintly damp with a sheen of sweat, dropped against his cotton-covered shoulder.

Greg could hear his partner’s attempts to regulate his breathing. Finally, when Greg was barely restraining his desire to know what had gone wrong, the embrace eased. He could feel the absence of the warmth at his back.

A faint rustling of noise, then the hands returned as they steadied his knees from the front. His feet were lifted in turn, each sneaker and sock carefully removed as he was slipped from his clothing. Palms glided up his legs, molding to each curve and plane as they returned to his waist.

Greg shifted, restless, as his shirt was raised and taken over his head. A momentary internal battle raged. Greg wished his shirt would dislodge the scarf and he’d know his lover. At the same time, he prayed the scarf would remain inviolate and take no risk of this ending.

His attention was drawn to the curled first pressed into his sternum. It perplexed him for a moment before the fingers unfurled and moved against his skin. Only as the motions ceased did Greg have any assumption as to what it had been.

Was it sign language?

It had been delivered as one might with a blind person… though that was usually against the hand. Did his lover not speak because deafness kept his voice different from the norm?

Greg burned with curiosity as the muscles of his shoulders and arms were soothed with long strokes. He only knew one person who spoke American Sign Language. As he could never explain the circumstances to Grissom, he could never ask for a translation.

He was urged into motion. Apparently, his clothing hadn’t been simply dropped. Nothing impeded the path of his feet across the carpet. He knew that shortly he must pass through the arched portal into the sunny nook in which Lady Heather served tea.

And, yes, his feet had moved onto tiles warmed by the unforgiving Las Vegas sun. The room was warmer by a few degrees, the air soft with the potted orchids of which Lady Heather was so proud.

Greg was turned to the side, away from the table that he knew usually sat before the window. The urging grasp moved from his elbow to his shoulders, instructing him silently to turn around. He did, backing up at the slight pressure until he felt the shape of furniture behind him.

He sat, laying himself out when directed. His lips curved with wicked humor. He was lying on a fainting couch, sprawled in pleasure across richly plush fabric like any member of a Roman orgy. The tickling rasp of velvet nearly distracted Greg from his still twitching erection, but not quite.

Greg luxuriated in sensation. It was finally enough to break the thought that he was too gawky or gangly for his surroundings. He was satisfied and secure for the first time. No one would take this much care with him if he wasn’t worth it.

Was it possible to fall in love without ever having seen their face?

Greg inhaled through his nose as something warm and faintly wet was brushed across his lips. Instinctively, his tongue darted out to taste. Chicken teriyaki, he identified as the morsel was popped into his mouth with his retreating tongue.

As he chewed, there was a drizzle over his nipple followed by a warm lapping. Greg shuddered and moaned as he was alternately fed and used as a plate. Typically, this wouldn’t have been something he could see himself doing.

But now?

Now he relished the attention. Greg wallowed in the care offered. He knew that this person was the one for whom he’d been searching.

Daring, Greg spoke as dessert was licked from his navel. “Please… Let me see you.”

The motion of tongue stopped. Greg smiled as anticipation rose. Any second now he’d feel them. Hands would untie the scarf, he’d know his partner at last, and he’d finally have the chance for something permanent. The upholstery under him shifted and Greg felt the presence of someone looming over him.

He arched, seeking contact with his silent master. The hands moved, not as expected to the back of his head, but to cup his jaw. Greg’s erection rubbed at his lover’s trousers as the man crouched over him. Although Greg yielded completely, the kiss never moved beyond delicate.

A soft press at the scarf over each eye. A gentle glide down the line of his nose and across each cheekbone. A single nip at the point of his chin.

Greg sighed as lips returned to his own, pressing in a moment of adulation. Then the hands left his face, the body was no longer above him, the sense that someone else was in the room was gone.

Waiting, Greg was certain he must be wrong. He couldn’t have been left here. Had he been too presumptuous? Should he apologize?

What had previously seemed the height of luxurious indulgence was suddenly awkward. Greg fidgeted restlessly. There was the sudden sharp sound of hurried footsteps.

He tensed.

The hands working the knotted scarf were too small. Lilac betrayed her even before he regained his vision.

“Lady Heather?” Greg asked in a small voice. His need had been forgotten, his erection flagging as anxiety grew.

“Aren’t you quite the mess, my dear Mr. Sanders?”

He certainly was a mess. Sticky and painted with the unfinished residue of his lover’s meal. Before he could reply, she gestured to a side door.

“There is a bath through there. Your bag has already been taken in. Why don’t you clean up and join me for coffee?”

Greg was having trouble with the rapid transition. He stood, as wobbly on his feet as a newborn foal, and stumbled to the bathroom.

His face in the mirror was pale, dazed. Greg cleaned himself quickly, yanking on the clean clothes from his bag with restless abandon.

His head told him this was good. Lady Heather’s presence was normal, the path to a reintroduction of sorts. His heart was afraid to hope.

Greg stepped out of the bathroom, his sneakers squeaking. The room was vastly changed. The chaise had been taken away, presumably to be cleaned. There was no food on the table, only Lady Heather’s tea service and a shining silver coffee urn.

Lady Heather looked up and indicated a chair. “Please, be seated.”

Still slightly numb, Greg sat. He reached automatically for the cup she held out. They traded the usual niceties of tradition, sugar and cream, taste and compliments. It felt wrong, but Greg was hesitant to speak. He kept his clammy hands wrapped around the warm porcelain.

“You have done very well,” Lady Heather began. “Consider your membership no longer at risk. I will, of course, take care that your needs generate no further false reports.”

Greg forced himself to look up from the murky brown surface of his drink. “When will I see him?”

Lady Heather’s impartial visage cracked and she looked away to adjust her tea. “You will not.”

Greg set his cup down, rattling it against its saucer. He folded his shaking hands in his lap and stared at them.

“What did I do wrong?” he finally asked, whisper soft.

“It wasn’t you, Greg,” Lady Heather reassured. “He simply…”

Greg never heard the rest of her explanation. His ears were too clogged with the voices of his past.

“I’m just too young for a serious boyfriend.”

“I don’t want to go to college as the ‘fag’ jock.”

“I need to be needed totally.”

“I’m just not comfortable around people.”

“Do we pay you by the word?”

“My submissives must give me all of themselves and I can never own you totally.”

“Do not yearn for your parents, Gregor. They are simply not ready to raise a child.”

***

Gil Grissom hurried through the busy halls of the Las Vegas Criminalistics lab. He sipped from a nearly full water bottle, his lunch curtailed. Jim hadn’t explained, just called that there was a problem with Sanders.

Disturbingly, it was Greg’s night off. The problem with having a CSI’s mind was the range of options one could imagine for a ‘problem.’

Gil stepped up his pace until he was practically jogging. His worry at the call, the strength of his pure protective impulse, had surprised him.

He went through the door into the private waiting area and halted. The latch clicked shut behind him but Gil was consumed by his shock.

“What the hell happened?”

Judging by the absolute reek of alcohol, he suspected a repeat of the incident with Sara and a DUI. But after flinching at his presence and voice, Greg looked up and Gil knew the situation to be much worse.

There was a small gash at Greg’s temple, taped with a butterfly bandage. That side of his face was beginning to bloom with a colorful bruise.

Jim finally answered Gil’s question, still staring disdainfully at the seated junior CSI. “Sanders here was picked up in a bar fight at Cuir Noir.”

“Cuir Noir,” Gil repeated, correcting Jim’s pronunciation while making his distaste clear.

Brass, relishing the downfall of the lab rat with pretensions, smirked. “That’s the one. Gay leather bar at the end of the Strip.”

Greg was hunching into himself, his face hidden once more.

Gil sighed. “Thank you for calling me, Jim. I’ll take care of this.”

“It’s not quite that easy.”

Grissom looked over when Jim continued. “He wasn’t the only one picked up. Other guy says Sanders started it. He wants to press charges.”

Jim watched curiously as Grissom scowled briefly. After thinking for a moment, Gil replied. “Let our complainant know I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

Brass nodded reluctantly. He’d clearly been looking forward to hearing Greg’s chastisement.

Once they were alone, Grissom settled into a chair across from Greg and leaned forward. The bottle was abandoned next to the chair leg to leave his hands free. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Greg’s hard, bitter chuckles were a shock. So was the resigned anger on his face as he raised his head. “Why?” he bit out. “Will it do any good?”

Gil held the same calm he used when speaking with suspects, confused as to the source of Greg’s obvious pain. “Greg,” Gil spoke slowly and resolute. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

At the voice that didn’t request but assumed command, Greg crumbled. His harsh bravado faded. When he spoke, his voice cracked and his eyes began to fill. “I just wanted… to know. It keeps happening, so there has to be a reason. If you keep getting the same result, something's causing it.”

Gil’s brow furrowed in confusion. This wasn’t the result of orientation confusion or anxiety. After all, he had personal experience that proved Greg was comfortable with his sexuality.

“I don’t understand,” Gil finally admitted.

“Neither do I,” Greg whispered. The tears slipped past his lashes, sliding unimpeded down his cheeks. “They keep leaving. Even when I need them to stay.”

Grissom stared in horrified frozen fascination as he received his first true glimpse at the depths of Greg’s soul.

“You see? There has to be a reason. I just want to know what’s wrong with me… why no one wants to keep me.”

Gil straightened as Greg hid his face once again and attempted to muffle his gasping breath. Heather had warned him… and she’d been right.

This was his fault. As surely as if Gil himself had put that contusion on Greg’s face, this was his fault.

Grissom reached out to touch Greg’s shoulder and draw his attention. The dazed, grief- stricken features were a harsh blow. “Stretch out, Greg. Lay down.”

Gil waited to make sure his request was being followed before reaching for his own water bottle. “Drink this,” he ordered, holding it out. “It will help with the hangover later.”

“Gris?” Greg questioned as the supervisor straightened.

Gil absently patted Greg on the shoulder. “I’ll fix this, Greg.” Then, repeating the promise, “I’ll fix this.”

***

Jim found Gil in his office, rooting through the back of a desk drawer. “You want to tell me why Sanders is sleeping in the waiting room?”

A look of satisfaction on his face, Grissom sat back in his desk chair holding a small black box. “Because I told him to,” he remarked absently.

The answer didn’t satisfy Brass. “Then, how about why we’re coddling Sanders for being trashed and in a bar fight?”

Gil had opened the box, revealing it to be a ring-sized jewelry box. “Surely it would be hypocritical to suggest that Greg is the first person to drown his troubles in a bottle?”

By the face Jim made, he didn’t appreciate the taste of that particular comment. Gil, having made up his mind, slipped the ring from its box and onto his left hand. It glinted dully in the light, bright but too long neglected for his work.

“What’s that?” Jim asked.

“Something I misplaced,” Gil answered with a shrug.

“You found it now?” Stressing the last word, Brass made it obvious that Grissom’s actions were incomprehensible.

Gil only smiled enigmatically. “I just remembered where I left it.”

***

The man looked up slowly as Gil closed the door and they assessed each other. Grissom was, as always, unimposing and easy to underestimate. The seated man would be taller than he when standing, Gil decided.

Shaved bald, it added a sense of menace to his thirty plus years. He was dressed as probably most had been in that particular bar. Black leather pants and boots were topped with a tight black wife-beater.

Now that it was brought to Gil’s attention, Greg’s attire had been the oddity. Sneakers, jeans, and a pale blue t-shirt that were all looser than standard for a club.

“Mr. Nelson? I’m Gil Grissom, Mr. Sanders’ superior.”

The words, as well as offering his left hand to shake, were carefully chosen. It caused the man to pause, to look again, to reevaluate his first impression.

As Todd Nelson released his hands, Gil saw the man look again at his ring and then shoot that gaze to his face. The slightest of twitch to his lips escaped Gil’s control as he sat at the table. His right hand fisted, with left draped over it, was the center of attention.

Gil spoke, his voice neutral and showing none of the undercurrents. “I’ve been given to understand that Greg has, this evening, behaved in a manner unsuited to his position.”

At the lack of response, Gil continued. “I have also been informed that you feel the best resolution would be a formal complaint, as is your right. You may also choose to press charges. Although, as Greg is quite bruised, he may have the same option.”

The other man finally ripped his gaze from the golden raised form of the ouroboros, the snake perpetually swallowing its own tail. “I didn’t hit him,” Todd Nelson asserted with an edge of worry. “I didn’t know, so yeah I grabbed him. But he got hurt when he pulled away and fell.”

Barely a pause, then he added in a rush, “if he’d said anything, I wouldn’t have touched him.”

Gil nodded as if this was the most sensible speech he’d ever heard. “I appreciate that, Mr. Nelson. However, we still have an issue to resolve.”

The silent defiance had vanished in the face of cooperation. “Well, uh, Mr. Grissom, sir… If he’d apologize, I’ll do the same. I know you’ll handle the situation without an, uh, outside report.”

Grissom smiled slightly. “A perfectly reasonable suggestion.”

***

Greg woke from his slight doze to an insistent hand on his shoulder. It was Grissom, accompanied by the guy from the bar who thought ‘not interested’ had been foreplay.

“Gris?” he managed muzzily.

“Stand up, Greg.”

He did, blinking in muddied confusion that increased as the cause of all this spoke.

“I’m sorry for my actions. I’ll not be filing a complaint because there are better ways to resolve this.”

Greg continued to blink, completely lost. Grissom raised an eyebrow and bit out two words. “Apologize. Now.”

It snapped his attention to the fact that his boss had indeed fixed the situation. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t have been there…”

He started to trail off, but Grissom didn’t look satisfied. “And my behavior was inappropriate.”

Greg frowned as the guy shook Grissom’s hand before leaving. He was very drunk. There couldn’t have been a meaningful glance exchanged by Gil Grissom and a total stranger.

“Greg?”

From the expectant look, he’d been asked a question. “I’m sorry?” he attempted.

Grissom sighed. “It’s okay. I’ll drive you home.”

Nodding, he followed Grissom to his Denali in silence. After making sure the seatbelt was latched, the supervisor urged, “Go back to sleep.”

Greg was already dozing as they pulled out of the lot. He never noticed that Grissom didn’t turn in the right direction for his apartment.

***

“Greg?”

The voice teased at the edge of his consciousness, urging him to wake.

“Greg?”

It tempted, but his mind so far preferred the soft blackness of sleep.

“Now, my dear Mr. Sanders, or I fetch the ice water.”

“L’dy H’ther?” he questioned. His eyes didn’t crack open, mouth barely moving around the dense fuzz.

“It’s time to wake. Further sleep will not cure your hangover.”

Greg blinked into the dusk-lit room and rolled over. The bed was comfortable but nausea made itself known with his movement.

“You will not be sick on my carpets,” Lady Heather ordered, watching him change colors.

Greg stilled, breathing slowly until his stomach had calmed. “What am I doing here?” he finally asked in confusion.

Lady Heather’s eyebrow’s arched in surprise. “You did know I monitor the community.”

It wasn’t really a question but Greg nodded. “Their reputation affects your business. I know.”

“Did you imagine I would not learn of your little contretemps?”

Greg frowned. “No, but…”

When he seemed not about to continue, she prompted, “Yes?”

“How did I get here?”

“You were very drunk, but I have need of you.”

His frown didn’t disappear.

“Do you not have tonight off?”

“I do, but…”

She waited until he finally muttered, “Nothing,” before standing, all business once more.

“Then clean yourself up and attend me in my parlor.”

As she swept from the room, Greg considered refusing and just leaving. However, he was loath to disappoint Lady Heather. While he had been disappointed in association with her, she had never let him down.

With a heavy sigh, Greg decided that a hot shower and aspirin would be just the thing.

***

Unlike last time, Greg was served his tea and crackers while kneeling nude at the side of Lady Heather’s chair. It was about all his still unsettled stomach could handle and he nibbled in silence.

“Are you finished?”

“Yes, Lady Heather,” he replied, returning his china to the edge of the table.

“Then we have a matter of discipline to address.” She quickly continued, meeting his concerned features, “Not yours, my dear Mr. Sanders.”

Leading him through the ever occupied halls, they finally approached a closed door. Greg had quite forgotten how comfortable public nudity could be when one trusted their companion. It was quite a pity he felt no urge to belong to Lady Heather, for he’d never have to concern himself with his care.

They stepped through the door to an ominous silence, it closing immediately behind them. Greg was transfixed by the room’s only occupant.

Kneeling, nude, his hands wrapped the restraints that hung from the ceiling to enclose his wrists. Skin of an olive tone glowed with the signs of punishment already received across the expanse of his back between his shoulders and buttocks.

But what caught the eye was the mask.

An explosion of color and texture, it covered the full head from chin to nape. The style was vaguely reminiscent of the commedia dell’arte pictures Greg had seen in his required college humanities classes.

“The fool,” Lady Heather stated flatly in introduction.

“A master?” Greg questioned. He’d finally noticed the man’s only adornment other than the mask, a golden ring on his left hand.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Heather answered. “But not only that. Look closer,” she urged.

Greg stepped forward, his feet near silent on the floor. Still, he must have made some noise. He watched the muscles tense as he neared the man.

“Do you see it? The ouroboros around his personal sigil?”

Greg reached out, nearly touching. The body was unfamiliar. But did he know those hands?

“Yes, Lady Heather. I see it. He’s a Protector.”

“Yes, he is. A master, who through his membership, was charged to protect the Domain, the community, and himself from false accusations, rumor and innuendo. A fine job he has done of it previously.”

Of its own accord, Greg’s hand settled on that upraised left hand. The fingers twitched under his own, as if they resisted the urge to entwine.

“Then why is he here?” Greg asked softly.

Lady Heather tilted her head. “He has failed at the Master’s basic duty. He placed his own fears above the needs of his subservient.”

Greg frowned, looking down at his own hand that had begun to stroke comfortingly along the taut forearm.

“Then… why am I here?” he asked.

“Because it was you he failed.”

The words appalled Greg and he whispered, “No.” He paused only a moment before repeating, “No. It was no failure. I wasn’t good enough.”

The muscles under his hand quivered. The mask covered all but the sharpest edge of a hitched breath.

Lady Heather shook her head. “My dear Mr. Sanders, you are everything that this particular Master could ever wish for or desire. His failure, in letting you believe that your separation was due to anything other than a misguided fear of his own, has purchased him this discipline.”

“Please… don’t beat him on my behalf,” Greg pleaded.

“I would not beat him. He receives nothing more than the punishment he’s earned.”

“Then let me take it for him.”

The mask again revealed that the Master’s outer calm was a façade as another hitched breath leaked through.

“He has already received the majority. While it would hurt him far greater, you do not deserve his remaining strokes.”

Greg’s face fell, his hand clutching. “Please?”

Lady Heather answered with a short, sharp shake of her head. “You may hold him, if you wish, while he takes the final six.”

Greg nodded spasmodically. While Lady Heather crossed to a cabinet with the vicious clicking of her heels, he moved around and curled in front of the restrained Master.

For the first time, he blessed his spare form. It allowed him to shelter behind his sturdier partner. As he settled, tucked closely into the chest, he discovered what the mask had so far hidden.

Salty droplets fell from the bottom edge and slid down the man’s neck. The sobs were very careful, very quiet, but present.

Greg looked up, his face crowded with concern, when Lady Heather spoke. “Press your forearms to his chest and cup your hands around the back of his neck under the mask.”

He complied, feeling the breathing ease as his Master’s emotions steadied. “I’m sorry,” Greg whispered, still not convinced he bore no fault.

“Count for him, Greg,” Lady Heather commanded.

The whistling crack was imposing as the whip cut through the air. It landed with a snap and the body in Greg’s arms jerked with a grunt.

“One,” he said calmly.

“Two,” as it fell.

“Three,” resulted in the repeat of the grunt and Greg shuddered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Four and five went quickly and Greg winced as he pronounced, “Six.” He soothed the sweat damp hair under his fingers and urged the mask to drop against his bare shoulder. It scratched and poked but Greg watched Lady Heather coil her implement.

“It is done,” she confirmed. “Penance has been paid for the lapse in commitment to the community and position. Thus, it is forgotten. Whether you forgive his trespass, Greg, is for you to decide.”

He stared at her before insisting, “Yes! Of course.”

“Yes,” he repeated, nuzzling the slick neck before him.

***

It had taken extensive reassurances by Lady Heather to draw Greg from the room. He finally followed her, glancing back all the while. When they’d returned to her parlor and she’d seated herself, he curled at her feet and pressed his forehead to her knee.

Her hand in his hair was meant to be reassuring. It only reinforced his longing to go back and provide succor.

“Thank you, Greg.”

He glanced up at the unexpected words. “Lady Heather?” he questioned, not understanding.

She cupped his face, serious in her consideration of him. “You taught that lesson far swifter than the pain would have.”

“But,” Greg hesitated, “he cried.”

“His tears were for your pain, not his own,” she gently rebutted.

From Greg’s face, it was clear he found this sentiment inconceivable.

Lady Heather frowned. “Despite his wavering, do you still want him?”

Greg ducked his head, hiding his burning face against her knees. His ‘yes’ was barely audible and she could almost feel his palpable shame at longing for someone who’d already rejected him.

Lady Heather resumed her careful petting of this skittish one. “I won’t let him harm you like that again.”

***

Reaching for his kit, Grissom pulled the skin over his shoulder tight and hissed in pain. He ignored the look it brought from his coworker on the interior of the scene and continued to work.

At least until she slipped her fingers into his shirt collar and pulled it back.

“Catherine!”

He spun around in outrage, but she had already perched her fists on hips ready to take him on.

“If it wasn’t Heather that put those stripes on you, I’ll beat the shit out of you myself.”

He ignored the statement and scowled. “We have a scene to process.”

But she didn’t waver. “It won’t be going anywhere while you explain letting your private life interfere in your work.”

Gil sighed, rubbing at the headache building just behind the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying not to let it.”

“Those are welts, Gil. That means you let someone take a whip to you until you could no longer stretch.”

Catherine's stint as an independent supervisor, not to mention her developing partnership, had made her a lot pushier. It seemed that answering her would be the fastest way to have this dropped.

“It was Heather and it had to be dealt with immediately. Which is why I’m working through it.”

Catherine’s eyes widened in shock. “What the hell did you do?”

When the scowl only deepened, she raised her hands in dismissal. “Fine, whatever. I’ll start on the outside, but you’re not going to be able to finish this by yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Gil, there’s castoff on the ceiling. I’ll call someone.”

He turned back to his work with a grimace of distaste. Even Sara would be an improvement over Catherine in full grip of her curiosity.

***

“A beautiful woman calls and I respond.”

Catherine looked up from the bush she had been examining to stare questioningly at Greg. “You’re awfully chipper for someone called in on his day off.”

He smiled, shrugging with his hands to the side. “What can I say? Life has a way of surprising you.”

“Uh huh,” she responded doubtfully. “Well, life has pulled Grumpy’s back. So, if you would please go inside to assist him?”

Greg nodded. “Sure.”

***

It hurt to even consider reaching for that evidence. Grissom stared balefully at the ceiling and stepladder. Neither moved to cooperate.

“Where do you want me, boss?”

Gil had long ago mastered the art of not blurting out the first thought in his head. Thus, he managed not to tell Greg ‘naked at my feet.’ However, judging by Greg’s patient expectation, he hadn’t managed an appropriate reply either.

“You had tonight off.”

Greg’s face fell at the statement, some of his enthusiasm ebbing. “Catherine called me in. I’m okay to work, but…”

When Greg trailed off, Gil prompted, “but?”

Greg met his gaze with calm resignation. “Sir, I would understand if you didn’t want to work with me after last night. Say the word and I’ll request a transfer.”

That wasn’t what Gil had expected. “About last night…”

Greg sighed, waiting.

“Are you okay?”

He startled, surprised at the inquiry and lack of accompanying criticism. “I’m fine. A friend came to my place and helped me through some things.”

Grissom nodded, face blank. He’d have to find out what Heather had told the younger man. He’d at least expected to be questioned on why Greg had awoken at the Domain.

“Get to work. Start with the ceiling,” Gil finally answered, dropping the personal concerns for now.

***

Greg Sanders was nervous. He knew there was really no call for his attack of anxiety. All the same, Greg fumbled his keys as he removed them from the ignition. Crouched down searching, he missed the approach to his car door until knuckles rapped against safety glass.

“Greg?”

He shot upright, paling as he noticed the woman outside the window. Rather than roll down the separating glass, he stepped out of the car. The hand clenched around his found keys was clammy and damp.

“Catherine.” His tone was wary and not at all pleased to see her. “What are you doing here?”

She was still in her work clothes, arms crossed. “That’s the question I was going to ask.”

Greg looked at the carefully lit front door of the Domain and then at Catherine. The overriding thought in his head was that both supervisors would now know he was a pervert. Grissom, after making his bar problem go away, and now Catherine catching him at Lady Heather’s.

“Ummm… I had an appointment?” His voice rose to a squeaky high on the last word.

Catherine stared at him for a moment longer. An unidentified suspicion danced across her face. Then, shrugging, she took his arm at the elbow. “Calm down, Greg. There’s nothing illegal in that building.”

But he couldn’t quite relax. Not when Catherine was leading him to the door. Greg slipped his keys in his pocket, barely remembering to activate his car alarm, before wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans.

In the foyer, Catherine seemed inclined to wait. Greg just pulled free and hurried up the stairs. He didn’t care if it revealed his over-familiarity with the place. At that moment, he was more concerned about this little factoid making the rounds at work.

***

By the time Greg had prepared for the evening and was waiting patiently in the room, he’d nearly forgotten that he’d entered the building with a coworker. There was only the rug under his knees, the two straight-backed chairs in front of him, and the vast possibilities of the turned down bed.

When Lady Heather entered, Greg couldn’t prevent his smile. Since he’d first come here, she’d always taken care of him. Now, in a seeming impossible stroke of luck, she’d found him a true Master.

She approached, stopping just before him. Greg bent, touching his forehead to her toes before straightening anew to display himself as he’d been taught.

“Lady Heather.”

She took the chair to the right of his vision. The crossing of her legs was the barest flash of pale thigh. “I am training a partner for the Domain. Do you object if she participates?”

“As you think best, Lady Heather.”

She watched him even as she called out, “Come in, Catherine.”

Greg’s gaze turned to the door and his coworker. Her presence caused a flare of tension as his muscles knotted. Then, remembering Lady Heather’s words, he melted into repose. It was odd to see the strawberry blonde outside of work. Odder still to see her as a dominatrix.

He only smiled slightly as he inclined his head. “Lady Catherine.”

As Catherine seated herself, Lady Heather began to chuckle. “I admit, my dear Mr. Sanders, I expected more of a reaction at displaying yourself to a known associate.”

Greg shifted his gaze. “It was unnecessary.”

When Lady Heather nodded, Catherine frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Explain, Greg,” Heather instructed.

That he was nude, erect, waiting to be contracted to a Master… none of it seemed to disturb Greg at the moment. “If Lady Heather is taking you as a partner in this business, then you are being prepared as a Protector. I have seen that she holds the standards dear. Thus, I am as safe with you as her.”

Catherine nodded her comprehension. She opened the folder she’d brought in with her as Lady Heather gestured.

“Now, Greg and his Master had the most complete of contracts. There is a specified waiting period – one month in which to decide if they’ll sign. Then, should they both wish, the papers become official.”

Catherine was growing red as she flipped through the pages. Lady Heather didn’t notice, she only continued, “It should not surprise that the Domain’s lawyers are capable of drawing two persons tighter than a state sanctioned matrimony.”

Greg was trying not to beam. It would be a nearly unbreakable claim on him. He wanted, he needed, but this would tie the Master to him as well.

“These are already signed,” Catherine said shakily.

Lady Heather inclined her head. “Yes. Greg’s Master is quite certain of his commitment. Show our dear Greg the jeweler’s sketch.”

Catherine was gritting her teeth, but took out the page from the very front. Greg shifted to take it from her. It trembled slightly, but he was unsure if it was due to him or Catherine.

Greg was immediately absorbed by the drawing. Professionally, it was noted as a necklace. Greg knew it was a collar. His collar. One thin and light enough to disappear unnoticed under his work clothes.

“The links…” His voice broke under the weight of the circumstances.

Lady Heather, as always, knew the answer without having to hear the entire question. “They are double helix, by request.”

“Then he does know me.”

Catherine choked but Lady Heather only nodded. “He does. However, I have instructed him to introduce himself properly before you next leave these premises.”

Greg knew it was his hand shaking this time as he handed the page back to Catherine. This was too much trouble for someone who didn’t truly care. He wasn't quite sure how to feel suddenly. Anything like this had always been ripped away before.

It already had been once. What if it was again?

Catherine drew his attention when she snapped the file shut and said heavily, “Heather… are you certain this is a good idea? There is,” she hesitated, “so much that could go wrong.”

“And there is much that could become right,” Lady Heather replied.

Catherine bit her lip as she stood. Finally, she touched Greg gently on the hair and murmured, “Good luck.”

After the door had closed behind her, Lady Heather stood and crossed to one of the bedside tables.

“Now, my dear Mr. Sanders, don’t be alarmed but you are owed a touch of discipline.”

She picked up his black scarf and met his apprehensive look. “You do know better than to become intoxicated in such a place as Cuir Noir.”

His bent head acknowledged the truth in those words. In the next moment, the cloth slid around his head. His arousal twitched as he recognized this would be his last encounter without knowing his partner’s identity.

***

Anticipation had pushed his heart into a frantic rhythm. Greg could hear little beyond the rush of his own pulse as he waited where he had been left by Lady Heather. He was standing, though he considered dropping to his knees despite her last instruction.

A master would appreciate that view, wouldn’t they? Kneeling, his legs spread slightly to showcase himself. His dampening palms would be resting lightly on his thighs.

The palms suddenly cupping Greg’s cheeks were a shock. He gasped, drawing in the scent and taste of attraction just before lips touched his own. The kiss was both passion and possession.

Greg returned the enthusiasm while yielding to the deep exploration. The realization that he was being slowly turned in a circle didn’t click. He passed it off as dizziness or disorientation. Then his master drew back and Greg followed, his lips still seeking that contact. He nearly stepped forward, but the hand in the middle of his chest forestalled the movement.

Greg waited, patient and eager. Something creaked and then brushed against the carpet. There was a sudden bar of chill across his midsection. Greg huffed out a breath, but the object warmed quickly. Hands now urged him to lean, bending across the obstruction. His own hands went out, seeking balance.

They touched, then slide to rest flat-palmed on the smooth, cool grain of varnished wood. Greg’s face flamed. He’d been turned over the back of one of the chairs. His ass was in the air as he balanced on the balls of his feet to keep the wood from pressing uncomfortably into his stomach.

The fire in Greg’s face grew hotter as he knew he deserved this. He’d dealt with his disappointment in a ridiculously immature fashion. He’d endangered his life, his safety, everything in a fit of acting out.

A hand settled heavily in the small of his back. It served as a reminder rather than any actual restraint on his body. Its twin caressed the skin of his behind with barely there pressure.

Greg didn’t know how many he’d be receiving. He only knew he’d be taking them without a murmur of complaint.

The first stroke stung, but it wasn’t cruelly sharp. Of course, there was no guarantee that the intensity wouldn’t rise with the number of strokes.

He wriggled slightly, wondering at the pause. Surely he deserved more than one? As he remembered that he’d never received punishment without being required to acknowledge it, he stammered over the rote words.

“One. Thank you, sir.”

The others came regularly after that and he did not fail again in his response. After fifteen, Greg was resisting the urge to squirm as that heavy hand continued to fall on his already evenly heated backside. After twenty, he was exhaling hard with each strike even as he gave his reply.

When they finally stopped at twenty-three, Greg’s ass was burning.

He knew it had to be bright red, that it would only fade in shades over the course of hours. There was a lightly, soothing stroke of fingers over his ass that turned into massaging pressure along his back. The fingers paused, seeking out and tracing each of his scars.

Greg winced. The expression went unacknowledged by the chair seat in front of his face. The beeswax rubbed surface didn’t share its thoughts. He would always bear some scars from being blown into his lab’s glass walls. He simply wished they were easily hidden.

The faintest touch of lips against each disfiguring mark caused a flinch. Greg was urged upright, his back flush against his lover. He did finally squirm as his ass met skin and hair that tickled and teased. Long caresses down the front of his torso kept him in contact as they stepped back as a pair.

When his companion sat, Greg had no option but to do so as well. The arms suddenly banding around him insisted on it. He settled with ill grace, arching his sore ass away from weight bearing contact. With his legs spread wide and dangling over the outside of his lover’s, Greg found the pressure falling on his untouched thighs.

He sighed as the constriction eased only to gasp as one hand began to tease at his nipples while the other stroked his unflagging arousal. Greg went boneless, trusting in the grasp on his body. The low voiced chuckle and heavy breath against his ear raised goosebumps.

As an agile tongue curled around his lobe, Greg writhed, whining wordlessly. The hand dancing across his chest stopped to press firmly just above his navel. It was the grounding he needed to hold his sanity against the rapid strokes on his cock. Uttering breathy little cries, Greg shuddered and came into that insistent hand.

His partner grew motionless, still cupping his genitals. Greg chewed his bottom lip for a moment before deciding on a rather forward action.

He settled one hand over the clasp on his abdomen before reaching out for the opposite wrist. Greg’s hand slid down the hair of his lover’s forearm before lifting the hand away from his groin in a tentative motion.

As he lifted it to his mouth, there was no resistance. The capitulation only increased his resolve. Greg’s first darting lick against the palm was echoed in a shaky exhale. He grew more confident, coating his lover’s hand in his own saliva as he lifted all traces of his own seed.

The twitching of the prick trapped against his back was all the confirmation Greg needed that his lover was indeed enjoying himself. But when Greg could no longer taste any evidence of his release, he moaned in disappointed loss. The man beneath him took no action, which Greg interpreted as his permission to continue to act.

He did, first turning his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the jaw that had been pressed against his own. Then, with the maximum of contact between skin, Greg maneuvered himself off the lap and onto the floor at the foot of the chair.

He sucked in a breath when his ass met the carpet and the pain served as his only necessary reminder. Quickly raising to his knees, Greg used his hands on his partner’s legs to orient himself. Shivering at his own boldness, that he wasn’t stopped was only sparse comfort.

Carefully, he felt the cock and balls of his lover until he was certain of his position. With increasing bravado, Greg bent his head to the weeping prick. He smiled around the girth in his mouth as his tongue learned its taste and definition.

He may never before have given his ass to a lover, but Greg had been frequently praised on his ability to give head. He set to with a vengeance, pushing himself to take his Master's cock faster and deeper until the tip brushed against the entrance to his throat.

The deep groan and tightening of the skin warned him. Greg pulled back, swallowing rapidly as his Master emptied himself into his mouth. He thought nothing of it as he was pulled to his feet. His mouth was devoured once again, shaking hands holding his face still.

Greg followed obediently, curling exhausted against his Master on the soft bed. It didn’t matter if he didn’t know now. They were still at the Domain, and Lady Heather had promised.

He’d consider his Master’s name a present to carry with him as he went to work once he’d awoken.

***

Greg was exceedingly comfortable. The sheet was a smooth cool presence, a sparse weight of tightly woven cotton. Blanketing his back was the warmth of a lover. A heavy arm across his middle kept him possessively clasped to a chest slowly moving with each breath.

He blinked awake, noting the time on the clock. Plenty of space for an indulgence before work. The erection prodding him indicated this would be one of his better fantasies. A change in breathing pattern and slight shift of weight told him that his dream was about to heat up.

The whole room seemed to hold its breath, the arm across him tensing. Then, a gruffly familiar voice delivered in low tones, “Good morning,” to his ear.

Greg shivered.

“God, I love this one,” he muttered. Suddenly wriggling, Greg worked to turn himself over without becoming tangled in the sheet. He frowned and the arm lifted as if to offer him his freedom. He wasn’t interested in freedom, but couldn’t even manage to be graceful in a dream.

Having completed his one hundred and eighty degree flip, Greg felt no shame in draping himself boneless across Gil Grissom’s nude form. He finally replied into the hollow of the older man’s throat, tongue darting out to taste. “What a very good morning.”

As Greg nuzzled, the arm lowered once more. It seemed only right that Gil give a low breathy sigh of contentment.

Resting at the joint of a bicep and shoulder, a hand settling into the small of his back, Greg felt cherished. Gil groaned as Greg found the spot just at the back of his jaw.

“You are delightful, Pet.”

Greg shuddered anew. Those words… in that voice… He lifted his head to meet Grissom’s eyes. “Have I been a good boy?” he asked with a decidedly suggestive undertone.

Gil groaned. This young man had him wrapped around his pinkie. Arching up, he brushed kisses along Greg’s throat as he pressed their bodies tighter together. Greg twisted as he returned the pressure. The combined stimulus delayed Gil’s growl of, “A very good boy.”

Greg whined as he felt the pressure of teeth on either side of his adam’s apple. He wanted a mark. He wanted to feel this all shift. He wanted to blush whenever he saw the real Gil Grissom as he remembered what he’d imagined the man had done to him.

He whimpered. “I don’t wanna go to work. Wanna stay here.”

A grumble that echoed a desire for agreement. Sucking kisses across Greg’s collarbone as he lifted to provide the easier access.

“I don’t imagine that you actually believe I would allow you to remain idle?”

Grissom’s head pulled back to stare at Greg with serious intensity. Greg panted, his hand straying down the haired chest.

“But here I have you. If I wake up, I’ll be alone again.”

Greg had glanced away to track the path of his hand under the sheet. He missed the flare of panic in Gil’s eyes. It was clearly necessary that they both know what was happening.

Gil lifted his hand from Greg’s back, quickly catching the fingers straying disturbingly close to his groin. Greg tugged, flustering Grissom as the younger man grinned unrepentantly. It led to a short struggle. Gil, needing this resolved, used the advantage of his greater bulk to lever Greg over and trap him.

Greg was panting, his arousal pressing into Gil’s thigh as his hands were held extended over his head.

“Greg?” Grissom asked carefully.

Greg’s eyes were dilated wide and dark with passion. “Anything, please,” he begged.

Gil swallowed hard but held tight to his control. It seemed incredibly odd, but Grissom found himself asking, “Am I real?”

Greg squirmed at the piercing gaze. He whined in reply, “No, but it’s always so good.”

In a flash, Greg was released. He reclined for a moment, wondering why his nudity suddenly felt awkward. Turning his head, he could clearly see Grissom sitting on the side of the bed with the majority of the top sheet swathing his modesty.

Greg clambered to his knees. Inching unsteadily across the bed, he laid his right hand on Gil’s left shoulder. “Hell of a thing when a guy feels rejected even in his own fantasy.”

Grissom twisted, catching Greg’s wrist in his own right hand and pulled the young man close. “Dammit, Greg. You. Are. Awake.”

He released Greg when the younger man yanked, only to scramble off the bed seconds later. Grissom had caught a glimpse of panicked eyes before a pale ass disappeared into the en suite.

The faint sounds of retching followed him as he found his clothes. It was suddenly very clear which one of them had been dreaming.

***

There were occasions on which the fact that Heather never seemed to sleep annoyed Gil to no end. This evening, as he burst into her presence, disheveled and brutally awake, he was merely relieved not to have to search her out.

“Tear it up,” he said flatly in lieu of a greeting. “Tear it all up.”

Lady Heather looked up from the desk that was a necessity in any business. Dropping her reading glasses onto the highly polished Queen Anne surface, she stared at him quizzically. Some of her concern leaked through as he so stringently hid all of his own emotions.

“Why ever would I do such a thing?”

The façade broke and Gil scowled. His eyes were dark, stormy. “You were wrong. It’s over.”

“Gilbert…”

He turned his back on her. “I’m done.”

***

It was highly unusual to see Lady Heather hurry anywhere. To see her literally running in the Domain must be a sign of the apocalypse.

She entered the room without knocking, but it was empty of anyone who would object. As no one was present to explain, there was also no one to appreciate the depth of her knowledge of profanity.

***

The entire shift was being held up by the lack of a supervisor. Catherine had been yanked into Ecklie’s office and no one had seen any sign of Grissom.

Greg refused to look up from the tabletop as the tip of his sneaker tapped convulsively on the floor. Catherine finally entered the breakroom to silence.

Self-preservation kept them from the usual comments in the face of her wrathful expression. “Grissom,” she began, “called in.”

Warrick was quick to ask, “Called in what? Dead?”

Nick snorted. “He’d have to be… Remember when he had that flu and gave it to the rest of us because he wouldn’t go home?”

Catherine’s icy stare kept the chuckles to a minimum. She passed out assignments without speaking. Greg still didn’t look up when one was slapped down in front of him.

***

When a few days had passed and Grissom still hadn’t returned to work, Greg approached Catherine in her office. “Uh… Catherine?”

She glanced his way before returning her attention to the stack of files. “Not now, Greg.”

He entered anyway, closing the door after him. Taking a deep breath, he blurted out, “Is Gil okay?”

Catherine looked up, her automatic response, “Do you care?”

Greg flinched, sitting heavily across the desk from her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No, Greg,” she rebutted. “I’m sorry. I thought you would need to be protected from his insensitivity. I never imagined the opposite.”

Greg clenched his hands tight. The nails on the inside of his fists cut into palms tender from frequent repetition of this action. “I can’t find him. There are things I need to say.”

Catherine’s mouth twisted as she restrained her urge to yell. “I’ve spoken with him. I think you made your feelings clear.” She continued before he had the chance to respond. “I never thought you were cruel. Couldn’t you find a way to turn him down that didn’t involve puking your guts up?”

She’d been addressing his down-bent head. When Greg looked up, it was clear that he’d started to cry at some point. Tear tracks crossed his cheeks and his voice broke as he said, “I can’t lose him… not now…”

“You already did, Greg.”

***

His base dejection told her all that was needed. Heather permitted her shoes to click as she approached the table. Greg looked up, unable to find the slightest smile for her. She seated herself and poured a cup of tea, noting that Greg had touched none of the edibles.

“Tell me what happened.”

It was all the opportunity that Greg needed. “When I woke up, I couldn’t believe that it was really him. I thought I was dreaming. When he told me…” Greg paused, gulping air. “I have an ulcer. I’ve always had one… since high school. To go from being that excited to that nervous, I’d screw it all up… By the time I came out of the bathroom, he was gone.”

Lady Heather’s cup set down with a decided click. “You are a pair of fools.”

Greg nodded meekly. “Can you help me find him?”

She stood, crossing to the side of the room before returning with a flat jeweler’s case. Open, she laid it before Greg.

His focus was caught in the links, twinned and twisted of gold and platinum. The disc-like medallion hiding the clasp glittered with a circle of diamonds. An ant, etched into the center of that gold field was clearly his Master’s sigil.

“Do you deserve him?”

***

Grissom had been gone for two weeks. It was little surprise when Ecklie accompanied Catherine into the breakroom. He wasted little time in getting straight to the point.

“Due to our sudden staffing shortage, day shift members will be supplementing as needed. Inform CSI Willows, as night shift supervisor, if you need assistance.”

Sara spoke up, interrupting, “What about Grissom?”

Conrad’s face twisted into a pleased grimace. “Gil Grissom retired, effective two weeks ago.”

“Hey, where’s Greggo?” Nick asked suddenly. He’d thought it odd that a shift meeting would be begun without a member, especially a change in supervision.

Ecklie pressed his lips together in disapproval. “Greg Sanders tendered his resignation with excess sick leave in lieu of notice.”

It was Warrick that asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What’s going on?”

As unusual as it was for the unit to lose any single person, it was rare to the point of insanity to lose two without warning or violence. Ecklie opened his mouth to reply, then closed it without speaking.

Turning to the newly official supervisor, he directed, “Catherine, you handle this.”

Her dry, “Sure, Conrad,” followed him from the room.

She faced what was left of the night shift and smiled. “Basically, folks, Gil and Greg got married. Anyone who wants to forward a congratulations can see me for the address.”

Sara blinked before asking, “What are the odds of that happening at the same time?”

Warrick rolled his eyes at her willful stupidity. He and Nick took their assignment slips from Catherine and strolled out of the room. As the last males on the team, they definitely felt this was better handled among the women.

“I don’t understand. Who’d Grissom marry?”

Catherine shot a glance skyward for patience and inspiration. “Greg,” she stated flatly, seeing no need to pander to Sara’s perpetual Grissom worship.

“But… they’re both guys.”

Catherine made a noise of disgust deep in her throat. “It’s called a Domestic Partnership Agreement. You’ve got a 419 at the Rampage, get to work.”

***

Here was that return of nervous nausea Greg had feared every step of his actions so far. It was back, threatening to force him to vomit on the stoop. Wouldn’t that be a brilliant first impression on the woman who’d just opened the door?

She was tiny – short and small-boned. Her pure white hair was curled into a bun on the top of her head. The escaping strands betrayed what must have been riotous curls in her youth. But it was her eyes – Gil’s eyes – that saw right through you and just dared you to even think the word ‘frail.’

Greg cleared his throat. For his own benefit, he reminded himself. She was deaf. Forming the words clearly with his lips, he asked, “Is Gil home?”

She was still staring at him and Greg squirmed. Then, she signed as she answered in a voice that was off slightly, “No. You are?”

Greg ignored the fact that his voice broke, telling himself that if she couldn’t hear it then he wasn’t making an ass out of himself to his mother-in-law. He offered the documents that proved his connection as he squeaked out his answer.

“His husband.”

***

He’d been here a week and he was exhausted. Moving home was the perfect place for a new start. Gil didn’t call out as he locked his mother’s door behind him. The house of his youth was a house of mostly silence.

A week and he was already being asked to consult by the locals. He followed the faint noise of china through the house, surprised to hear his mother’s voice. She must have been expecting a helper for her afternoon at the church. It wasn’t as if they were accountable to each other beyond general consideration.

“He was adorable.”

The male voice carried and Gil froze. Then, angered beyond reason, he stormed into the kitchen. The slap of the saloon style doors off the wall dividing the kitchen from the rest of the house and his sudden appearance brought his mother and Greg to a halt over the photo album.

The coffee mugs and crumb sprinkled plates clearly showed she hadn’t been about to toss the younger man out on his ear. Gil shot a warning glance at the mischievously twinkling look on his mother’s face and switched his gaze to Greg.

He was tense, but seated comfortably by the elderly woman. Gil couldn’t help but appreciate the black jeans clinging to the long legs and flattering charcoal polo shirt. The sight of engraved gold glittering at Greg’s throat did nothing to ameliorate his anger.

Gil was almost shaking in fury as he demanded, “What are you doing here?!”

Greg opened his mouth to reply but was beaten to the punch by the woman at his side. Her fingers flashed and her ire was clear as she chastised her son.

“Gilbert Orwell Grissom, that is no way to speak to your spouse! Sit down and be polite. If your father had spoken to me that way, I’d have turned him over my knee!”

Greg ducked his head to hide his grin as Gil seated himself reluctantly. He really liked Grissom’s mom. She’d looked over the papers with an eagle eye, listened to his story, and then told him to call her ‘Mom.’

Gil’s voice was thick with threat, his hand stiff over the word, as he inquired, “Spouse?”

Greg flushed as he fished the papers out from under the photo album and handed them over without a word. As Gil slipped his glasses from his pocket and slid them on, his mother stood and took her dishes to the sink.

“The Father’s expecting me. You boys behave.”

Greg was wide-eyed as she crossed nonchalantly to the swinging doors that divided the kitchen from living room. Tsking over the small dent in the paint, her fingers moved in a quick message to her son.

Gil nodded, sighing as he turned back to Greg. Greg was patently not ready. “What’d she say?” he asked, in hopes of delaying this confrontation.

Gil took his glasses off slowly and didn’t meet Greg’s eyes as he answered, “To make as much noise as we liked since it won’t disturb her.”

Greg’s blush was sweetly shy and made Gil long for everything he’d left behind. He gestured to the signed and notarized pages in front of him.

“I asked Heather to tear these up.”

Greg swallowed heavily. Lady Heather hadn’t mentioned that to him. “She didn’t,” he replied hoarsely.

“I’m not going back to Vegas.”

“I know.”

“Your job is there.”

“No, it isn’t… I quit.”

“Why?” Gil asked, frowning.

Greg’s ‘this is all going to work out’ determination was rapidly crumbling. “Because my place is at your side.”

“Greg, these aren’t real.”

“Yes, they are. Legally, the papers are valid. I filed a copy with the Clark County Clerk of Courts.”

Gil’s eyes widened. “Greg…”

Greg interrupted, reaching up to touch the gold at his throat. “Please. You know I’ll do anything you ask. Just don’t ask me to leave.”

Gil appeared undecided as his mind battled itself over Greg’s presence and what it could mean. He stared down at the tabletop, not meeting those pleading eyes.

“Your mother told me about Peter. I know everything between us has been miscommunicated. Please believe that I would never knowingly hurt you.”

Sadness was writ upon Gil’s face. “I can’t deny that I want you.”

“Then, don’t…”

“How can you expect a relationship to work if I make you ill?”

Greg closed his eyes in the manner of the long-suffering. “Nervous ulcer. Complete misunderstanding. Can we forget that I utterly humiliated myself at quite possibly one of the best moments of my life?”

Gil had rather missed how easily Greg perplexed him. Silence hung, finally broken by the older man’s voice.

“What would you do?”

“Anything you want.”

Gil’s gaze made his appreciation of such flippancy clear. Greg smiled, feeling the change in the air.

“I have an interview in a few days. Being a Grissom-trained CSI is apparently a big advantage.”

When Gil didn’t speak, Greg urged, “Give us a chance.”

Gil knew it was hurtful even as he asked, “Why should I?”

Greg had exhausted himself and had only one item left in his repertoire. “Because I love you, Master.”

Gil closed his eyes and Greg waited anxiously. “Come here.”

The barely audible words had Greg out of his chair like a shot and crouching next to Gil. The hands touching his face were reverent, worshipful. They were both all too aware of how fleeting this contact could be.

Gil stood, bringing Greg upright with him. He smiled at the younger man, buoyed by the answering grin. Greg followed him, only questioning when they reached the stairs, “Uh… Gil?”

Grissom turned, placing a gentle kiss at the corner of Greg’s jaw. “I love you, but I’m not going to have you in my mother’s kitchen.”

Greg quavered, his eyes beginning to tear up. The ones that fell were gently brushed away as Gil led him to the second floor and down the hall.

“I know it's small, but I wasn’t expecting company. I suppose house-hunting has become a higher priority.”

Greg bit his lip. He was trying desperately to contain such ‘it’s perfect because of you’ sappiness and trite repetitions. He did ask, “House hunting?”

Gil hummed as he ran an index finger under Greg’s shirt and across the warmed metal of his collar. “You are mine to keep as I will, are you not?”

Greg nodded, gasping for air as his lover’s fingers sought out the fastenings of his clothes. It was a heady drug to have something you wanted so dearly, with someone he trusted so completely.

“Then I deem a house to be required.”

Greg whined, fearing he was going to come in his pants from the feel of Gil’s mouth on his neck and hand at his zipper. He pressed forward, whimpering as the tongue traced down his jugular and edged aside his shirt for the hint of metallic.

“Don’t you agree, Pet?” Gil asked with a definite evil twinkle in his eye.

Greg blinked, trying to regain his sensibilities. He groaned reaching for his lover and drawing him back into contact. Gil chuckled as Greg brushed faint bussing kisses over his lips, cheeks, forehead, and chin.

Taking the hands that had drawn him back, Gil forced Greg backwards and down until he was sprawled at the end of his bed. His feet dangled over the side, sneakers thumping against the carpet as he wriggled. Grissom had learned one overwhelming intimate fact about Greg – he was utterly incapable of holding still.

It was the work of a minute to strip Greg, especially with his cooperation. He looked good – right – against Gil’s comforter. He was staring back with desperation and need. As Greg reached up to touch his only remaining decoration, the collar at his throat, Gil misinterpreted the action.

“Leave it!”

Greg paused, growing wide-eyed at the barked demand. “I wasn’t…”

“It never comes off. Ever.”

Greg’s bit his bottom lip, but not even that held back the smile that crept onto his face. “Yes, Master.”

Gil growled, tearing at his own clothing. It was an impediment to his worshiping the delectable body spread before him. It had to go.

Greg whimpered, shivering as Gil crawled over him and urged him further up the bed. When his head was pillowed at the top and Gil was laying partially on him, Greg interrupted his lover’s oral exploration.

“Master?”

The hum from near his nipple told him that Gil heard, but wasn’t interested in stopping.

“Would you take me?”

“What does this feel like to you?” Gil asked, moving his attentions to the tightened flesh’s twin. He bathed it with his tongue, bringing it to an equal peak and causing Greg to buck slightly.

“I… I want…”

Gil lifted his head, a serious mien dominating his face for a moment as he met Greg’s hesitating glance. “Don’t ever be afraid to ask for what you want.” His lips quirked as he added, “I may not give it to you… but you should certainly ask.”

Greg closed his eyes and took a chance. “I want you to fuck me.”

His hands clenching tight, Gil almost immediately loosened them. Greg would bruise only where he chose. He wouldn’t make it a habit of marking the young man by accident.

“You’re mine now, Pet. I want to remind us both of that fact… and I’m not feeling gentle.”

“I don’t care,” came the whispered reply.

“Greg… You’ve never done that before.”

“I don’t care!” Greg’s shout took them both by surprise. He’d opened his eyes, his determination and courage warring with his nerves and his desire for this. “I want to give this to you.”

Gil nodded, taking the offer with the sense of gravity it deserved. He lifted, placing his hands at Greg’s hips to urge him over. “Hands and knees, Pet.”

Sitting back on his own heels, kneeling on the bed he’d used as a teenager, Gil watched his lover spread himself before him. Greg’s pale back was a line of marred trembling skin. His ass, firm and ripe like a peach ready for plucking. Where the younger man was bony and spare in places, his behind was nicely formed.

One hand reached out of its own accord to caress that slope and Greg sighed. Newly impatient, Gil took a globe in each hand and bent his head to place a sucking kiss at the top of the crease. Greg was new to this, new to them. Kindness now, not that Gil was capable of cruelty, would make all the difference in their future.

Hands shaking, Gil fumbled the side drawer open. He hadn’t expected a guest. However, he was a sexually active man. The lubricant hadn’t been intended for a partner, but it would serve.

Greg gasped as the cool liquid slithered into the crack of his ass. He whimpered into the pillow stuffed under his face as Gil’s hand slathered it further into the depression. The whimpers turned to cries as a finger slid deep without further consideration.

Gil shifted closer, leaning over Greg as his hand continued to work to loosen and stretch the virgin hole. “I’m going to take you, Pet. Just like you asked me.”

Greg was not precisely capable of words, but his sounds definitely made the point as Gil added a second finger too quickly. The pillowcase grew damp as Greg chewed on it rather than yell out.

“Do you still think you don’t care?” Gil asked. He twisted his hand, seeking. Greg’s interrupted scream told him he’d found the prostate he’d been looking for.

“Don’t hold back, Pet. I want to hear you scream.”

Greg was sobbing for breath and nearly crying into the pillow. He pressed his face harder, trying to control his reactions. There was part of him that wanted to demand that Gil stop. There was another part that wanted to demand Gil just fuck him already and make it hurt.

But Greg said nothing. It had taken him nearly losing this to realize that he didn’t care how Gil took him. However he did, it would be right. Because it was Gil.

Gil smirked as the third finger returned Greg’s vocabulary to him. Of course, it was incredibly limited.

“Now… Please, please, please, please, please.”

He was still pleading into the pillow as Gil took hold of his cock and lined it up with the quivering hole. The hand at Greg’s hip restricted him from pulling away as the head pressed tight. It slid inside with a nearly audible pop, the mushroom shaped cap stretching the outer ring past its loosened preparedness.

Greg screamed again, the sound mostly muffled by the pillow. Gil bent over his back, his fingers digging into the hip as his other hand crept around to the softening cock.

“You don’t care, remember?”

He slid forward, pulling back until Greg’s body strained to hold him within. Gil pushed forward, sinking halfway in a powerful stroke that had Greg whimpering anew.

“You just want me to fuck you.”

Working in slight increments, Gil eased himself back and forward until he’d sunk balls deep in Greg’s ass. As the pressure of a cock in his ass forced itself over his prostate and the hand in front reminded him quite how nice sex could be, Greg’s gasps for air turned to cries for his completion.

Gil set his teeth to the back of the neck in front of him, marveling at his own need to mark and possess this man. He bit down, tasting the faintest copper tang, as he began to fuck Greg in earnest. He pushed himself into the body that yielded to him, glorying as Greg whimpered.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

The chant of Greg’s penitence was nearly all Gil could take. He leaned back, seeking better leverage, and saw how easily Greg’s skin took his mark when he shifted his hands. He pulled the younger man up and back, crossing his arms over the sweat slick chest.

A set of five faint marks remained on one hip, even as Greg pushed down to meet Gil’s renewed thrusts. They panted in unison, Greg riding his lover’s lap with determined intensity.

Finally, Gil’s arms tightened until Greg couldn’t even twitch within the embrace. He pumped up a last time, spasming into the welcoming depths of Greg’s body. Greg whined as his Master panted his completion into his shoulder blade, needing to find his own.

Gil’s arm shifted, hand curling tight around the needy purpling cock. “Whose are you?”

“Yours… Only yours,” Greg cried out as the hand began to move. It was a pair of short, hard strokes that had him coming, his seed arcing away to spill on the covers dampened and mussed from his writhing.

“Good boy,” Gil praised as he coaxed the last of Greg’s release from his softening cock. “My very good boy.”


End file.
